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I think Nancy Reagan's "Just Say No" campaign was born the same year I was. At least it seems like I've always been told that it's stupid to do drugs. I've never been taught that doing drugs is morally evil or anything, just that drugs are bad because they make you dumb. Only stupid people do drugs, and what's worse, the drugs they do contribute to and extend their stupidness. My parents both have advanced degrees, so in my house being smart is more important than anything else. If you're smart, you've got it made; dumb, you're out of the game. That's why, until just recently, I never even questioned whether I should "Just Say No" or not.
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By
Tyler Valdez
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This summer I started thinking about it, though. Doesn't "Just Say No" really mean "Don't Think For Yourself, Just Do What You're Told."? How smart is that? It's really quite stupid, if you think about it. If smart people are supposed to do what they're told without thinking, it must be smart to be stupid. Which definitely fits in with a theory I have: that being stupid makes you a better, happier person.
Even though the people I work with at Red Lobster this summer aren't college material, I wouldn't say they're stupid. If my friends from school ever met them, though, they would definitely disagree with me.
I'd love to see what Antonio, the philosophy-spouting captain of my school's debating team, would think of Jimmy the dishwasher or Rachel the hostess. You know what, though? Jimmy and Rachel have a lot more fun in life than Antonio, and they're nicer people, too. Instead of sitting around their rooms moaning about how messed up the world is, and how no one will ever understand their true genius, my co-workers think of exciting things to do, and then they go out and make them happen.
I usually work Friday and Saturday nights, but last weekend I worked the lunch shift on Saturday, too. So instead of sleeping late that day, I had to get right up and go to work again. I had gone out with Maude and her boyfriend Friday night after work, so I was really dragging my feet. I must have looked pretty tired, because everybody kept asking me if I was OK. By the time the dinner shift had started I felt like I was going to vomit all over someone's scrod. That's when Jimmy offered me some Ritalin.
You shouldn't get the idea that Jimmy is some stereotypical drug dealer like they're always showing you on TV. He doesn't smoke pot or snort cocaine, and he doesn't wear a beeper or gold chains or anything like that. (OK, he does wear a beeper, but his mother bought it for him.) Jimmy is really cute, at least I think so, he's really into break-dancing, and even though we're the same age he seems more mature than most high school boys. Jimmy does a lot of doubles at the Lobster, but he's always super-funny, no matter how hard we're working. I guess it's because of the Ritalin he steals from his little brother, who gets it prescribed to him because he's hyperactive.
Jimmy and Maude both promised me that Ritalin wouldn't give me permanent genetic damage or even lower my PSAT scores by more than a point or two. Normally I would have Just Said No, but I was so wiped out that I just tossed the two pills into my mouth and swallowed — hard. For an hour or so it seemed like it wasn't even affecting me, but right at the peak of the dinner rush, everything started to seem really, really funny to me. I became Super Waitress. Everything that had seemed difficult about my job now became as easy as the plastic-tasting Key Lime Pie I was serving. I amazed the cooks, who usually hate my guts, by actually picking up my orders before the tartar sauce separated. My tables thought I was charming and started tipping me big. Best of all, Jimmy started to flirt with me for the first time.
Every time I brought him a pile of dirty plates, he said, "Tyler, these dishes are all buttery — just like you."
I made Maude go with me into the walk-in freezer. I was going to tell her about Jimmy, but I found myself babbling, "I feel so incredibly great right now! I'm not letting the cooks and all the customers bug me, I'm just concentrating on the task at hand and I'm totally focused, you know what I mean? I'm not worried about my future, or the rainforests in Brazil, or any of that stuff that usually brings me down. This must be how stupid people feel all the time! Being stupid is cool! It's the true secret of life!" Maude tried to bring me back down to earth. She said, "Tyler, if you could just try to shut up for the rest of the shift, I bet we could get Jimmy to drive us to this keg party on the golf course. But don't start telling everybody how stupid you are. Believe me, they'll know."
A couple hours later, as we raced through the beautiful midnight streets of downtown Boston in the back of Jimmy's Brat, I felt like I was going into orbit. I had this amazing realization that I was surrounded by a force-field, and that whatever I did would be all right. At the golf course I did two shotguns, which usually puts me into a coma, but this time I could hardly feel it. So when Jimmy started getting nice with me, it wasn't like I didn't know what was going on; I was totally in control of the situation. I even made him drive me and Maude home before things got too crazy. It was the most fun I've had in a long time.
The next morning, though, things looked different to me. I woke up really early, even though I was totally sleep-deprived. I didn't feel sick or anything, but I just didn't want to get out of bed. Even though Maude had made me promise to go to the beach with her and this other girl we work with, all I wanted to do was catch up on my assigned summer reading list. Maude and Soraya showed up half an hour later, and my stupid mother let them into the house. They sat on the edge of my bed and started having this long, loud conversation about the most inane subjects you could imagine, like how many shots they did last night, and what kind of car Maude's boyfriend drives, and who was going to be at the beach today.
I pulled the covers over my head and thought, "I can't be stupid! I want to be stupid, but I just can't be!" Before, stupid felt like a refuge. But that morning, being stupid required too much effort. I guess it's harder to get to stupid on Sunday morning than it is to get away from smart on Saturday night.
Tyler Valdez is hype, yo. This is the sixth edition of her Mad Crib. Catch up on what you missed in Tyler's archive.
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